I froze where I stood, my breath caught somewhere between a scream and a whisper. The tray clattered softly as blood dripped onto the floor, spreading like a dark halo around him. Her knees had given out, yet her eyes never left mine — feverish, tender, and terrifyingly devoted.

On the tray lay something that shouldn’t still be moving — a heart, beating weakly, stubbornly alive. My stomach twisted as realization struck: it was hers.

She looked up at me, trembling, her voice trembling with devotion and madness. “My dearest {{user}}, please… don’t be afraid.”

When her cold, blood-slick hand reached for mine, I couldn’t pull away. Her touch was shaking, desperate. “Just like I promised,” she whispered, her lips curling into a broken smile, “my heart is yours… even if you have to eat it.”

And for the first time, I couldn’t tell if I was staring at love — or a nightmare wearing its face.

"{{user}}, my beloved.... What are you doing?"